Divided Loyalties
by DreamsofSpike
Summary: In the wake of a heated argument between him and Nick, Monroe disappears. Nick tries to find him, with no success. Then, a stranger arrives - a tiny-but-powerful blonde with her own entourage in tow - informing Nick of a new danger rising in his city. Nick is stunned to find that this new threat brings him back into contact with Monroe - a deeply damaged Monroe who needs his help.
1. Prologue

"I don't want to fight with you, Monroe."

Nick sighed wearily as he walked through his front door, tossing down his keys on the table by the door and making his way toward the kitchen. Monroe followed him inside, closing the door with quite a bit more force than was strictly necessary – an unspoken message that _he_, apparently, _did_ feel like fighting. Nick made his way to the kitchen, putting the bloodied mace he'd used not even an hour earlier down in the kitchen sink, with enough of a clatter to match Monroe's wordless gesture.

They were _already_ fighting, whether he liked it or not.

"Yeah, well, it's a little late for that, man," Monroe retorted darkly, echoing Nick's thoughts. "I don't see why you can't see where I'm coming from with this…"

"I just think you should have told me, that's all," Nick insisted. "You knew about that connection for, what? Three _days_? And just kept it to yourself that whole time?" Nick's tone was carefully even as he rinsed the blood off his weapon, his back turned to his friend.

"I'm not obligated to tell you everything I know, every time, Nick." Monroe's voice rose, challenging and defensive. "I'm not obligated to help you _at all_…"

The pointed words triggered Nick's irritation again, and he slammed the now-clean mace down into the sink again, spinning around to face Monroe, glaring, unable to keep the accusation from his voice.

"A woman is _dead _who was alive a day and a half ago!" he snapped. "And maybe she'd _still_ be alive if you'd just _come_ to me…"

"And maybe Rosalee'd be dead!" Monroe shot back, voice trembling and so furious that Nick was actually surprised he didn't _woge_ as he spoke. "In case you've forgotten, helping you doesn't always work out so well for us. You'll have to forgive me if I'd rather keep her out of this – this _freak show_ as much as possible!"

"Freak show? Really?" Nick crossed his arms over his chest, a cool, tight smile masking the sting he felt at Monroe's words. "That's how you see this?"

"_Dude_." Monroe's voice softened, suddenly weary and sad. "It's not me. That's how _everyone_ sees this – _Wesen_ and Grimm alike. Your own mom tried to kill me before she'd even _met_ me, and – and you've seen for yourself how the _Wesen_ community feels about me taking your side." He was quiet for a moment, shaking his head slowly, before looking up to meet Nick's eyes again, solemn but unapologetic. "Yeah, I could have told you your suspect was Rosalee's cousin. But then what happens when you decide to bring her in for questioning, and then suddenly _she's _a target, too?"

"As if I'd let that happen to her," Nick protested, indignant. "I know how to be discreet, Monroe. I'd have been careful with her safety…"

"Yeah, well, my two previously cracked ribs that can now tell when a bad storm is coming, and the nightmares I still have of being locked in a cage and electrocuted tell a different story," Monroe retorted. "I'm taking a chance _every day_ by helping you. And that's _fine_."He held up a silencing hand to halt Nick's protest. "I happen to believe it's worth it, and it's my life to risk, if I want to." He was quiet for a moment, slowly lowering his hand and adding softly, "But don't ask me to risk hers, too. Because I never, _ever_ will."

Nick sighed, running a hand through his hair and letting it rest at the back of his neck, closing his eyes for a moment before meeting Monroe's gaze again. "I have never asked you to place yourself in danger. In fact, I'm the one who's always telling you to be careful. I _suggested_ that you back off and stop helping me, and _you_ said…"

"I _get_ that, Nick," Monroe interrupted, frustration evident in his voice. "I have a choice, I know. But – so does she. And I'm not going to make it for her."

"She was never in any danger from anyone," Nick insisted.

"Well, I guess we'll never know, will we?" Monroe countered, quiet and resolute. "Because I kept her out of it."

"We're gonna just have to agree to disagree on this one," Nick decided at last, turning toward the fridge and taking out a couple of bottles of beer, then turning back toward his friend, extending one like a half-hearted peace offering.

Monroe eyed it dubiously for a moment, before shaking his head and waving a dismissive hand. "You know, I'm not really very thirsty. In fact, I'm feeling kind of nauseous." He turned and headed toward the door.

"Monroe – wait" Nick protested with a sigh of frustration, setting down both bottles and following Monroe down the hall. "Come on, don't be like that…"

Nick reached his front door just in time for it to slam in his face.

Frustrated and exhausted, Nick returned to the kitchen, where he morosely consumed both beers, before taking the mace from the sink and going upstairs to put it away in the spare bedroom that had become a sort of makeshift storage room for his most commonly used Grimm supplies. It was one slight convenience that had come from Juliette's moving out a couple of months earlier, the pressure of trying to recreate with him a life of which she had no memory simply becoming too much for her.

The slight convenience was by no means a fair exchange for the loneliness and loss.

Nick took out his cell phone, staring down at it and wondering if he'd given Monroe long enough to cool down yet.

_Thirty minutes… probably not…_

He was too tired to wait up, and too tired to maintain his defenses, so Nick took a hot shower and climbed into his big, empty bed. By the time he switched off the light, he had just about decided that Monroe had a reasonable point. Yeah, it would have helped things if he'd known about Rosalee's connection with the _fuchsbau_ he'd ended up killing that night – a _fuchsbau_ who'd contracted a _Wesen _illness much like rabies, and gone on a mindless killing spree, taking out four innocent people before all was said and done. If he'd known about the connection, he might have been able to solve the crime sooner, and might have been able to save at least one of the victims.

And as Monroe had pointed out, if the suspect had had any clue that the police – the _Grimm_ – had questioned his cousin, then in his rage and paranoia, he very well might have gone after _her._

The more he thought about it, the less Nick could blame Monroe for being unwilling to take such a risk with Rosalee's safety.

_It just would be nice to think he trusted me to keep her safe – to keep_ them _safe…_

_Yeah. Might be a little easier for him to do that if he didn't have so many scars already, just from being my friend in the first place. _

Nick closed his eyes, trying to sleep, and reassuring himself that he would go by Monroe's house the following morning – _after_ pilates – with his alcoholic peace offering in hand. Maybe he'd even stop by that little corner coffee shop Monroe seemed to like so much and pick up a pound of his favorite coffee. It was _obscenely_ expensive, but Monroe knew that – that was why he rarely actually had any on hand – and that fact would only serve to make the gesture mean that much more.

_Give him the night to cool down_, Nick reasoned. _Maybe go by and see Rosalee, reassure himself that she's okay and nothing bad actually _happened_… give him his space to deal with this on his own terms… then tomorrow, we'll work it out. We've been friends too long for this to put an end to it. He's upset, but we'll work it out in the morning. _

Reassured, Nick finally fell asleep.

But when he went by Monroe's house the following morning, the blutbad wasn't home.

And he didn't _come _home.

It would be nearly a year before Nick saw his friend again – and when he did, both their lives would be irrevocably changed.


	2. Chapter 1

"Good night, Hank."

"You heading out?" Hank smiled, looking up from the report he was typing into his computer. "It's about time. Seems like you just about live here lately."

"Yeah," Nick took his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged into it, adding under his breath, "Got nothing better to do." He turned back toward Hank to return his smile, if a bit wearily. "I'll see you tomorrow, man."

Quiet nights like this were the hardest – nights when there was no complex mystery to figure out, no pressing work to keep him at the station until he was tired enough to actually _sleep_ when he went home to the empty house that, these days, only seemed to serve as a reminder of how much he'd lost. On nights like this, Nick always left the station feeling restless and unsettled, the ever-present ache of sorrow settling in his chest like a weight.

Nick glanced at his watch as he pulled his car out onto the street, making a last-second decision and turning in the opposite direction of his house. It was just after five; Rosalee would still be at the spice shop for at least another hour – and he hadn't been to see her in over a week.

Nick tried to stop by and visit Rosalee whenever he could, but he still ended up feeling guilty for not going to see her more often. A visit to the spice shop once a week or so – a couple of late night visits at either of their respective homes, which had ended with them both drunk and in tears and swearing by the light of day to never let it happen again – that was the extent of their interactions these days.

Anything more just… _hurt_ too much.

Nick knew that Rosalee didn't have many friends left in Portland – at least, not many that she could still safely keep company with – and now that Monroe was gone, he knew she had to be terribly lonely most of the time. He sometimes wondered why she stayed at all – but deep down, he knew the answer to that question. No, there was nothing to hold her here, not with Monroe gone – nothing but the lingering hope that he might still return.

Nick wasn't sure he had that hope at all anymore.

The bell over the door was jarringly cheerful in contrast to Nick's mood. He put on a smile for her benefit as Rosalee looked up, clearly pleased to see him.

"Nick!" She smiled, setting down the pen in her hand and coming around the counter. "How are you?"

"Okay," he replied, closing the remaining distance between them and taking her into a warm hug. He drew back to meet her eyes – and frowned. They were tired and sad, red-rimmed and suspiciously gleaming. "Rosalee, what's wrong?"

She shook her head, pulling uneasily out of his arms and looking away. "Nothing, Nick. It's nothing."

"No, it's _something_," Nick insisted gently, following her retreat and studying her with concern. "You've been crying. Did – did something happen?"

Rosalee sighed, and the slight hitch in her breath betrayed how near she was to crying again. "No. Well, yes. But – it's really nothing. It's silly, Nick. I shouldn't be…" She stopped abruptly, looking down at her shoes and wiping at her eyes. "I-I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Nick leaned on the counter beside her, crossing his arms casually and making a show of settling in. "Tell me," he urged her softly.

"Well, I – I was at Monroe's house last night," she began, her voice hoarse and halting.

Nick nodded in silent encouragement. Since shortly after Monroe's disappearance, Rosalee had taken it upon herself to go to his house once a week, letting herself in with the key he'd given her only days before his disappearance, dusting and vacuuming and generally making sure that his house was kept in the type of order one might want to find it upon coming home after a long time away. It made Nick sad – not only because of how desperately she still hoped – but because with each day that passed, his own hope grew less and less, and her actions were a constant reminder.

"I was just about to leave when I noticed that – the clock on the mantle between the living room and the dining room – you know, the one with the twisted wood in the back – and the – the baritone chime…"

Nick swallowed hard, his own eyes suddenly burning. "His favorite," he acknowledged, the words feeling thick in his throat.

"Yeah." There were tears on her cheeks now. "It – it's stopped." She shook her head. "I-I tried to fix it. I looked for a place to wind it, tried to figure out what was wrong, but – but I couldn't, and – and…" She broke down, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs before she finally looked up with anguished eyes to meet Nick's gaze. Her voice was barely over a whisper, lost and broken, as she concluded at last, "He's… not ever coming back… is he, Nick?"

Nick couldn't bring himself to either lie or tell the truth – so he just moved toward her again, wrapping her in a silent, reassuring embrace. She tensed at first, her breath catching in her throat – but then relaxed into his arms, slumping against him with her head on his shoulder and letting her tears flow freely. Nick just held her for a long time, eyes closed, trying with all his might not to feel the overwhelming ache of loss in his chest.

She was trembling – or _he_ was. He couldn't really be sure, especially because, when she finally withdrew, she was searching his eyes with an inexplicable sympathy.

"We're being silly," Rosalee stated firmly, sniffling a little and wiping at her eyes. "They've never found a – never found any evidence of any – foul play. No struggle or anything. There's no proof that anything – _happened_ to him. Maybe he had to go away – to help a friend or something, and – and there's some reason why he couldn't tell us."

Nick considered those words for a moment before giving her a wry smile. "If that's true… then _I'll_…"

"Hey," Rosalee cut him off with a knowing nod. "Get in line, mister. He'll have a lot of explaining to do."

The quiet laugh they shared was filled with more pain than mirth, but it did serve to lighten a bit of the heaviness that seemed to surround them, if only for a moment.

"He'll come back," Rosalee declared firmly at last. "He _will_. We – we just have to keep believing that."

Nick swallowed hard, forcing a nod and a smile. "You're right," he whispered. "You're right, Rosalee."

It was a relief to walk out the door at last, and no longer have to keep up the brave, faithful façade that he knew was slipping anyway. He tried to maintain it for Rosalee's sake, but it was becoming ever clearer that she was perfectly aware of how difficult it was becoming for him. Nick swiped at his eyes to clear his blurred vision as he made his way to his car.

By the time he was sitting behind the steering wheel, the weight of his grief in his chest was so crushing that he could barely breathe, and his tears were flowing too fast for him to keep up with them. He slammed his palm furiously into the steering wheel, cursing in frustration, before resting his head in his arms and taking a few deep breaths, struggling to bring his emotions back under control.

Rosalee wasn't ready to face it – and neither was he, for that matter; he didn't think he ever would be – but the truth had never been clearer to Nick than in that moment.

He was never going to see his friend again.

The loud clanging of the metal door slamming open, accompanied by the too-bright light that flooded in from the hall beyond it, drew Monroe unwillingly from sleep – his only respite since he'd come to this dark, cold place, so long ago now that he had lost track of time, stopped trying to keep count of the days – stopped trying to escape – stopped trying to do anything but simply survive.

Monroe's stomach dropped as a familiar scent reached him, and he looked up with dread to see his master's silhouette outlined in bright white, standing in the doorway. He scrambled up onto his knees, knowing that's how the man would want to see him, not lying casually on the floor against the wall as if this man's presence meant nothing – as if this wasn't the person who held the absolute power of life or death in his hands, who with a single word, a single almost imperceptible motion, could leave Monroe shattered in agony in his wake.

Master had left him only a couple of hours earlier, mercifully conscious and relatively unharmed, and he hadn't seemed angry with him _then_ – but the swift, forceful strides of his heavy boots as he crossed the room made it perfectly clear that he was _definitely _angry _now_. Monroe knew better by now than to ask questions – not that he had time to, before the man had drawn back a powerful fist and backhanded him viciously, knocking him off his knees and against the wall behind him. Before the wave of dizziness could pass, the man was crouched beside Monroe, close in his space, one large hand braced against the wall by his head, hemming Monroe in, in a way that made his heart race and a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck.

Master's voice was cold and softly threatening as he leaned in to speak close to Monroe's ear. "Since when do you think you can get away with lying to me?"

Monroe was confused, horrified, sick with terror at the accusation. "I-I didn't," he whispered, knowing that to not answer at all would be an action that would be swiftly punished. "I d-don't understand…"

A second brutal blow fell across his face, and he tasted blood in his mouth. The jarring impact to the back of his head drove all coherent thought from his mind, leaving in its place only panic. He had no idea why he was being attacked like this, what Master thought he'd done wrong, but he recognized the cold, ruthless expression on the man's face, the vicious tone in his voice – and knew that he was in _serious _trouble. As his master's hand pulled back to strike again, Monroe held up a trembling hand in front of him, gasping out a hurried, desperate protest.

"Wait, _wait_! I – I don't even know what you're…"

He recognized his mistake, saw the vindictive rage in his master's eyes – an instant before searing pain tore through his head, swallowing up his words in an agonized cry. Before the overwhelming, punishing wave had even passed, the man's hand was in his hair, a clenched fist viciously yanking his head back as a calm, menacing voice spoke into his ear in a façade of gentleness and patience.

"So, _you _decide what happens to you now? You tell _me_ what to do – is that it?"

"No," Monroe gasped out, trying to shake his head against the painful grip on his hair. "No, please… that's n-not what I meant, _please_…"

Terrified, despairing tears sprang to his eyes, but he kept them shut, not daring to meet his captor's gaze, his uninjured hand held up in a pleading, submissive gesture in front of him. There had been a time – long ago, barely remembered – when Monroe would have had too much pride to give this man the response he wanted. He had argued and fought and resisted every step of the way, every moment since he was taken – until he simply couldn't anymore.

Pride had long since become worthless, a meaningless thing to a man who had experienced the kind of pain that could break him apart from the inside out – could reduce a fierce, powerful predator to a shattered, sobbing, broken thing that could only plead not to be hurt anymore.

His other instincts had all receded into the back of his consciousness, barely remembered, _never_ surrendered to.

The only instinct that mattered anymore, in _this place_ – was _survival._

And survival meant keeping Master happy.

"Please," he whispered, his voice breaking over the word as the man released his hair. He lowered his head in submission, desperate to appease his master before he could get any angrier. "Please, I – I just – I don't know what I _did, please_…"

"Oh, I think you can figure it out, if you think real hard," the man sneered, ducking his head to meet Monroe's gaze with piercing eyes that seemed to see right through him. "All of this time you've been here… all of our conversations, everything you've told me… can you think of anything… _important_, you might have left out?"

Monroe's mind raced, trying to figure it out, but there was nothing he could think of. He'd been questioned for hours – or days, or longer; he wasn't really sure – about blutbaden and other kinds of Wesen, and where they might be found, and what their various weaknesses were. He'd tried to hold out, and he'd succeeded for a long time, but eventually – eventually he'd answered all of this man's questions, told him everything there was to tell.

"I-I haven't!" he insisted in a voice of quiet desperation, shaking his head pleadingly. "I told you everything, I swear…"

Master shook his head sadly in mock disappointment, but he was still smiling. "No," he said softly. "No, you didn't. But you will."

Monroe nodded frantically, pathetically eager. "I will, I'll tell you whatever you want to know, I just… I don't know what you're _talking_ about!"

"I'm talking about your friend. You know – the _special _one. The one you have to have known, all this time, that I'd be very interested in hearing about."

Monroe shook his head, at a total loss. "I told you, I – I don't spend time with other blutbaden – or really other Wesen, for that matter, much. It – it just leads to trouble, and… I just… I don't know what…"

Another brutal blow across his face stole his breath, and his words, and Monroe flinched violently, his stomach lurching as the man grabbed him by the throat with one hand and pushed him hard against the wall, his other hand dropping to clutch Monroe's wrist and pin him helplessly in place. Monroe's breath quickened with panic, his pulse racing, as the man crowded in close to him, his smile cold and predatory. And his heart sank with his master's soft, leading words, as it suddenly became clear just what the man wanted from him – and just how certain he was that he _couldn't_ give it to him.

"No more lies," his master instructed softly, fingers tightening painfully on Monroe's throat. "You're going to tell me _everything_… everything you know… about the Grimm."


	3. Chapter 2

It took Nick less than fifteen minutes after arriving home the following night to decide to go for a walk. The silence of the house was simply too oppressively lonely to bear. On the darkened streets of the city, Nick would still be alone – but the quiet, night-time sounds, the crisp autumn air, would make it more peaceful and relaxing than lonely. They created the illusion that he was alone by his own choice – and they almost allowed him to believe it.

They didn't help, however, to keep his troubled thoughts at bay.

He kept playing over that last conversation – no, _argument_ – he'd had with Monroe, when he'd insisted that Monroe had all but betrayed him by holding back information, that he should have been completely open and honest with him about Rosalee's cousin, that he should have just _trusted _him…

… trusted him to keep them both _safe_.

_And you failed. Something terrible happened to him, because you weren't looking out for him, and he was right. He was right the whole time. He never should have trusted you…_

Nick was almost glad for the distraction when the sounds of a struggle met his ears, from a little further up the street. He broke into a jog, reaching for the small, slim dagger he'd taken to carrying any time he was out alone at night and off duty, just in case. As he rounded the corner, he saw a rather large, beefy guy, apparently assaulting a young blonde woman, holding her pinned up against the wall of the alley. Nick couldn't see his face clearly, but there was one feature he could clearly make out – the elongated, deadly sharp teeth swiftly descending toward the girl's throat.

"Hey!" Nick barked out, hoping to startle the guy and buy a few seconds as he hurried to close the distance between them. "Leave her alone!"

The guy turned with a snarl, and Nick was unsurprised to see that his face had shifted into something Nick had never seen before, something vaguely cat-like, with ridges across its forehead and long, glistening fangs. The creature released the girl's arms, turning toward Nick with a sinister grin.

"What?" he sneered, mockery in his slightly distorted voice. "You want a taste?"

Nick couldn't quite suppress his own smile, adrenaline coursing through him, every nerve tingling and on edge at the prospect of the violence before him. It surprised him a little, how much he wanted to take this guy down, and take him down _hard_ – but he realized with sudden clarity that he'd been _itching_ for a fight for quite some time now.

"Come on," Nick replied with a challenging little nod, beckoning the creature forward with the hand wrapped around his dagger. "Pick on somebody your own size."

The creature laughed, glancing around pointedly. "I would if I saw someone," he retorted. "You're not exactly what I had in mind… but you'll do."

Nick grinned, his grip tightening on his weapon. "My thoughts exactly."

He watched his opponent carefully, moving with him, circling slowly until he'd managed to place himself between the monster and his intended victim. The creature feinted a couple of times, Nick following his moves closely, until abruptly it snarled and lunged at Nick, barreling into him with breathtaking force and speed and throwing him to the ground.

Nick struggled, trying to regain the upper hand, but was alarmed at the sheer physical strength this creature seemed to have. And besides his strength, the guy was huge, and seemed to have some pretty impressive martial arts skills as well. Nick fought to free himself, and finally managed to jerk his hand at just the right angle to slash the blade of his dagger across his enemy's palm. The creature drew back the hand with an angry hiss, and Nick took the opportunity to drive his dagger forward into his enemy's chest.

It wasn't the way he liked to do things, not usually, but it was clear that this time, he didn't have much of a choice.

The guy froze over Nick, eyes wide with surprise for a long moment. Then, a slow, malicious smile spread across his face. Nick stared in horrified disbelief as the monster reached between them and took the dagger from his own chest, meeting Nick's eyes with his own golden yellow gaze as he licked slowly, dramatically down the length of the blade before tossing it aside, vicious fangs extending as his eyes focused in on Nick's throat.

_Oh, crap._

Nick tried to pull away, but knew he wasn't strong enough and braced himself for the worst, as his opponent's fangs descended .

They never met their mark.

An instant later, the weight of his opponent was gone, and Nick looked up in disbelief to see the little blonde standing over him, some kind of weapon in her hand.

"Nice effort, and I appreciate the gesture," she acknowledged with a rueful smile and a little shrug. "But I _got_ this."

Then she turned away to focus her attention on the creature, struggling vainly to pull his body away from the wall where she'd flung him, as easily as a rag doll. He'd landed, conveniently, directly on a piece of jagged iron piping that was now protruding from his chest – and yet he was still snapping and snarling at her as she approached.

_What kind of Wesen_ is _this?_ Nick wondered, watching with vague horror as the girl slowly advanced on the now captive monster. _And how the hell are you supposed to…_

As the girl stepped into the glow of a distant street light, Nick could finally make out her weapon – simple, wooden, with a sharp, pointed end – just before she plunged it into the monster's chest. Immediately, the creature disintegrated into a cloud of ash, swept away on the wind. Nick was still lying there, gaping in disbelief, when she returned and extended her hand to him. Dumbly he took it and allowed her to pull him to his feet, vaguely wondering at how she had the strength to do so, only after he was standing.

"What – I mean – where did it…? I've never seen one do _that _before."

"Which implies that you _have _seen one before." The girl raised a dubious brow, regarding him with new interest. "Haven't you?"

"Well – maybe not _just_ like that, but…" Nick paused, studying her a bit more closely. "_You_ clearly have. Who, or – or _what – are_ you?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and Nick considered the possibility that he could have chosen his words more carefully, especially with someone who'd taken about five seconds to dispatch a monster that had tossed him around as easily as a cat would an injured mouse – a monster that had nearly _killed_ him tonight.

"My _name_ is Buffy Summers," the girl replied at last. "And… I think you just might be the guy I'm here to see."

He wanted nothing more than to sleep… to simply fade into peaceful oblivion, to be able to forget the terror and the confusion and the desperation. At this point, he didn't think it would even matter to him if that sleep happened to last forever.

But the pain would not allow him to sleep – and his master was not so merciful as that.

Monroe was standing in his cell, his wrists bound together and in front of him, elevated slightly by the chains that hung from the ceiling, holding them at about the level of his face. The elevation made any real rest impossible, forcing him to hold his arms up, because any time he let them down, it put an almost unbearable amount of pressure on his injured hand. For once, however, there were so many other injuries that the excruciating pain in the damaged limb didn't seem as bad as usual.

Monroe heard the door open behind him, and his stomach lurched with dread. Master had granted him a brief "break" from his interrogation, which had lasted throughout the night. He'd been beaten brutally, and when that had failed to yield results, Master had proceeded to more… _inventive_… measures. Monroe had no idea how long it had actually been since he'd been left here, chained like this, his entire body throbbing and burning and aching all over, in utter agony.

He only knew that it hadn't been nearly long enough.

The slow, measured footsteps behind him made Monroe tense with apprehension, awaiting the next torment, the next punishing touch of the hands that had become so agonizingly familiar to him during the eternity he'd spent in this place – but when they came to rest on his bare sides, Master's hands were gentle, his voice soothing and sympathetic at Monroe's ear.

"This is silly," he stated softly. "There's no reason why you have to go through all this, 74."

_74_… not his name, not here… not like this… because he didn't _have _a name, didn't deserve one… wasn't human, wasn't valuable beyond what Master could take from him… beyond what he _knew_…

His breath caught in his throat, his thoughts driven away as his master's hand moved to the base of his spine, still alarmingly gentle over the deeply bruised spot where Monroe's captors had quickly learned to focus much of their attention. Monroe froze, resisting the urge to pull away from the softly invasive, subtly threatening touch.

He knew better by now.

"All you have to do," Master whispered, very close to his ear, his breath hot and damp against Monroe's skin, sending a shiver through him, "is tell me about your friend. Is that so hard? Give me anything. It doesn't have to be a lot. A name. An address. A profession. _Something_." He paused, his hand on Monroe's side tightening slightly, bracing him – the only warning Monroe got. "Give me _something_…" Master's other hand tightened into a hard, clenched fist, and he drove it slowly, ruthlessly forward into the abused spot at the base of Monroe's spine. "… so I can stop _hurting_ you."

"_Please_," Monroe choked out, breathless with pain, a violent shudder passing through his body. "Please, I – I _can't_. Please, I'll tell you _anything_ else, I'll do whatever you want, just d-don't ask me to tell you this…"

His words broke off in a frantic, strangled whimper as Master pressed harder into his back with his fist, his other hand sliding down to rest on Monroe's bare hip in a casually possessive way. His voice was dangerously controlled , soft but with an edge of warning, as he replied.

"_Of course_ you'll do whatever I want, 74. Because I _own_ your pathetic ass. The only reason you're still _alive_ is because I want you to be, and you will do whatever I say, whenever I say it."

Monroe's stomach lurched, recognizing the dangerous turn the conversation had taken, and his own unintentional mistake. He swallowed hard, drawing in a deep, shaky breath, struggling through the pain and terror to regain enough control over his voice to respond.

"Y-yes, master," he whispered, bowing his head in submission, his knees automatically flexing as if to fold his body to the floor, though the chains over his head kept him up. "I-I'm sorry, master, of course I will…"

His captor's voice rose abruptly, violently angry and threatening, as the gentle hand on his hip rose to clasp a handful of his hair and yanked his head back viciously. "Then _tell me_ where to find the _Grimm_!"

Despairing, shoulders shaking with silent sobs, Monroe simply kept quiet. There was nothing he could say that would appease this man – nothing that wouldn't end with the blood of his best friend on his own hands. It didn't matter what his master did to him; delivering Nick into the hands of this monster simply wasn't an option – never had been.

"Come on, 74," the man continued, his voice suddenly soft again, the jarring inconsistency leaving Monroe's head spinning, his heart racing with panic. "If he's as tough as I've heard… then what are you so worried about?" He paused, as if considering, before shrugging slightly and pointing out, "Maybe I won't even be _able_ to hurt him. Maybe _he'll _kill _me_. And then you'll be free, and I'll be dead, and you won't have anything to worry about. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Monroe remained silent, unsure of any answer he could give that wouldn't result in further suffering.

Abruptly the man released his grip on Monroe's hair, stepping back away from him and cursing under his breath. Monroe tried to turn his head to see what he was doing, but couldn't quite manage it from that angle, with the massive amount of pain his body was suffering. A moment later, however, he heard the quiet static of the hand-held radio his master carried with him. It was silenced as the man spoke into it, his voice sharp and authoritative.

"Dr. Hawkins, I've got a hostile here that's ready for your examination. Cell 422. Come and pick it up right away."

Monroe's stomach dropped at those words, and he craned his neck again to try to see his master's face, shaking his head pleadingly.

"No," he whispered, hating the broken sound of his own words, but unable to keep the desperation from his voice. "Please, don't… please don't let them…"

"Shut up," Master snapped, swiftly striding around to face Monroe and backhanding him hard across the face. "You had your chance."

"Wait," Monroe protested weakly, terrified. "Wait, don't send me… not – not _there_…"

When he'd first been captured, he'd spent a couple of nightmarish, brutal days in the experimental laboratory of this facility – before Master had decided that he had more important, more… _specific_… uses for the only _blutbad_ they'd managed to capture alive. It had only been a couple of days, in the course of the long months he'd spent here – but it was enough to continue to haunt Monroe's dreams to that day.

Master slowly closed the slight distance between them, his hand firm but gentle as he cupped Monroe's chin and tilted his head up slightly, holding his gaze with steely blue eyes. "You have a choice right now, 74," he stated coldly. "You can stop this stupidity _right the fuck now_, and tell me what I want to know… or I can leave you here, and let them do whatever they want. Up to you."

Monroe stared up at him, shaking his head slightly, hopelessly. He couldn't – he just _couldn't_, but… but the thought of being back in that place, strapped down to a surgical table and suffering at the hands of cruel "doctors" who didn't care how much their procedures hurt him, didn't show any mercy as they sliced into him, burned him, did whatever brutal experiments entered their minds to carry out on him…

Master was apparently finished waiting.

He released Monroe and walked away, opening the door to the cell. Footsteps could be heard just outside, and Monroe fought back a sense of overwhelming panic as he listened to Master's cold words to the men outside his cell.

"You have one hour. Don't kill him. That's all."

"Wait!" Monroe cried out before he could stop himself, though he wasn't really sure why he even tried; there would be no mercy shown to him, not in this place, not by this man. "Wait, _please_!"

And he wasn't going to betray Nick; he _wasn't._

He just wanted the man to _stop_, to come back and keep the others from taking him away.

Master's voice was casual and cold as he stepped out of the way and allowed the men to wheel their cold, metal gurney inside. He tossed the words over his shoulder carelessly as the door closed behind him.

"Too late."


	4. Chapter 3

"So. Vampires."

Nick shook his head, letting out a nearly silent laugh as he ran his hand through his hair and met the eyes of his guest across his kitchen table.

"Don't know why that's so hard to wrap my head around, given all the things I've seen in the past two years. But – somehow it is."

The girl – Buffy, and _that _was something to get used to, too, the idea that any rational parent would ever name their child _Buffy_ – smiled, nodding. "Oh, believe me, I know. I didn't believe it either the first time I saw one. Thought I was losing my mind."

"That… sort of sums up the way I felt a couple years back," Nick agreed. "I thought I was crazy. Seeing things. But – it's all real. Even vampires, apparently. Why not? I met a real Bigfoot last year."

"Bigfoot? Really?" Buffy only seemed mildly surprised. "Now that, I thought was fake."

Nick wasn't really sure why he'd invited her home with him, so soon after meeting her. She was clearly very physically powerful, with fighting skills that drastically outweighed his own – and he had no real guarantee that she was actually on his side. Maybe he should have thought better of it, taken her somewhere public and neutral and well-lit so they could talk – but then, this topic of conversation was better discussed in private, and he was pretty sure if she'd wanted to kill him, the alley where they'd met would have been a more convenient place.

He tried not to think about the other reasons why he might have brought her here – like the fact that he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a conversation with another person that wasn't related to a homicide, or simply heartbreaking. Or the fact that a part of him, deep down, just didn't care as much as he used to if some mysterious stranger _did_ show up and murder him in his own home.

Who was there left to miss him, anyway? What was left in this life for him to miss?

"So, what else have you seen?" Buffy asked, taking a sip of the bottled beer that had been the only thing he'd had to offer her, grimacing a little, but then raising it to her lips for another sip. "What kind of… creatures, _other _than Bigfoot?"

Nick hesitated, his instincts piqued just a bit by her questions. She was clearly seeking information – but he had no idea yet exactly why; and while he might have been a bit careless these days with his _own_ safety, he was far less willing to put the _Wesen_ community at large in danger. If she _was_ an enemy, then Buffy might prove to be far more formidable than any of the threats he'd faced in the past.

"I think before we talk about that," Nick suggested, raising his own drink, "you should tell me a little more about _you_, and why you're here. I'd feel a lot better knowing that, first."

"Fine." Buffy shrugged. She paused, tilting her head to the side a little as she looked him over again. Her tone was mildly confused, a little disbelieving, when she spoke again. "You really don't have any super powers at all? You're just – an ordinary guy?"

Nick felt unreasonably defensive, his shoulders straightening slightly, automatically. "Well, apparently _someone_ doesn't think so. You came here looking for _me_, right?"

Buffy nodded. "That's part of it. I came here because the seers who are in contact with my Watcher told him about some big bad evil thingy that's supposed to show up here. In Portland. And – they also told him that you're the guy that's going to help me stop it."

Nick frowned, shaking his head. "There are seers now? And… evil thingy? That's… specific. And… what's a Watcher?"

"He's like… my teacher, sort of. Or he was, back when I needed one. He helped me learn all about this Slayer stuff."

"Slayer…?"

"Me, Slayer." Buffy pointed her bottle toward herself before taking another sip, then made a big display of how much she apparently hated the stuff she was drinking. "You know. I fight the monsters. And – he taught me how. Didn't you ever have anyone like that? Someone who taught you all the weird stuff you know about all the monsters and everything? Helped you learn how to… do what you do?"

A sharp pang struck Nick's chest, and he looked away, swallowing hard. "I did. A while back. He's… gone, now."

"Oh." Buffy set her bottle down, and when Nick glanced up at her, she was watching him with sad eyes. "I'm sorry."

Nick didn't reply, just nodded in acknowledgement of her sympathy before looking up again expectantly, impatient for her to go on and leave this awkward moment behind.

"Anyway, the – the reason I'm here," Buffy continued, looking down at the table, a bit uncomfortable, "is… the more the seers told my Watcher, the more familiar this big bad evil started to sound. See, there's this secret government organization I ran across a few years back, called themselves the Initiative. They know all about the supernatural stuff we think is so secret, and they – they hunt them. Monsters, demons, vampires – anything that's not human. And now… we believe that they're here."

"In Portland." Nick frowned, a vague unease building in the pit of his stomach.

Buffy nodded. "Yep."

"But… the creatures I deal with here… they _are_ human," Nick pointed out. "There's… another _side _to them, yeah. They're supernatural all right, but – they're still _people_."

"That's true for some of what I deal with, too," Buffy agreed with a little grimace. "But these military guys – they don't care. Once they see any display of anything even a little bit… not-normal, all they can see is a monster. And according to my Watcher, they've been hunting them down in your area for at least the last six months, maybe longer. Capturing them. Studying them, doing… experiments."

Nick felt a little sicker at the thought of his _Wesen_ friends, subjected to this kind of treatment. "_Why_?"

"They want to find ways to bring their powers under human control, so they can use them. Probably as weapons. Maybe for other things." Buffy looked down, shaking her head. "Which is… stupidly dangerous at best. The last time they tried it, it resulted in a bloodbath, humans and monsters alike. Anything they can't control, they destroy. Exterminate. And… that's just the beginning. What it results in at _worst _is…"

"Slavery," Nick finished, his voice low and troubled. "_Genocide_."

Buffy nodded slowly. "And you're the one who knows these creatures. You're the one they talk to… the one they trust. I need you to help me help them… and stop the Initiative before they can hurt anyone else."

Monroe lay on the bare cement floor of his cell, his entire body trembling with cold and pain. He couldn't find a position that was even a little bit comfortable – couldn't find a place on his body that didn't hurt – and every time he closed his eyes, he felt that he was back in that terrible _place_, back in the lab where they'd tied him down and burned him and injected him and set off shock waves of agony in his head that left his entire body thrumming with a searing heat. And yet, he couldn't seem to get warm, shivering miserably, without any clothing or covering to provide even the slightest comfort.

He wished they'd just killed him this time.

When the door to his cell creaked open, Monroe shuddered, turning his face down into his folded arms. He knew it could only be one person – and it was the last person he wanted to see.

It was the only person who scared him more than the ruthless doctors in the lab.

Monroe tensed at the sound of slow, measured footsteps approaching, and then flinched at the feeling of a rough, callused hand against his bare side, the gentle touch making his over-sensitized skin feel as if it was on fire. When he instinctively pulled away from the pain, however, his master's hand tightened firmly, the unspoken warning clear.

He didn't have the right to pull away. Master could do what he wanted with him, and any attempt to prevent him from doing so would be met with brutal punishment. Monroe went still, shivering and tense, waiting for the worst. But when Master spoke, his voice was soft and sympathetic.

"I tried to keep this from happening to you," he said sadly. "I told you what you had to do."

As he spoke, his hand trailed lightly down from Monroe's side, around to stroke over the tender spot at the base of his spine in a touch that was barely even contact at all, but still made Monroe's blood run cold, his breath stolen away, his stomach roiling dangerously at the terrifying threat that lay behind it.

"Please," he whispered, shaking his head. "Please, don't."

"Shut up."

Master's voice was quietly commanding, and Monroe immediately bit down on his lower lip to stifle his instinctive pleas. Master was quiet for a moment, bearing down just slightly with his hand – just to prove that he _could _– before moving his hand again… only to place it over Monroe's damaged hand in front of him. Monroe's breath caught in his throat with overwhelming terror, and he shook his head, burying his face in his arms again to silence himself before he could cry out. It didn't really hurt – not yet – but he knew all too well that this man was always just a single wrong word, a single imagined offense away from inflicting brutal agony.

"You didn't have to go through any of this, 74," Master pointed out, a hard edge creeping into his voice. "You didn't have to suffer like this. All you had to do was answer my questions." He crouched down, his hand tightening cruelly around the shattered bone and broken flesh of Monroe's abused right hand, and Monroe bit back a cry of anguish, struggling to be obediently silent. "You were doing so well," Master whispered with a falsely sad smile, "for so long. Why can't you submit in this _one little thing_? Why'd you have to go back to constantly _pissing me off_?"

Breathless with agony, Monroe struggled to respond, his words shaking and broken and stumbling over each other. "P-please," he gasped out. "I-if I could… could do w-what you want… I would, but… but I _can't_. He… he's too… he _means_ too…" He looked up, shaking his head, silently pleading – his words not defiant, not challenging, merely desperately honest. "I'll _die_ before I'll give him up."

Master studied his face for a long moment, eyes narrowed slightly. Then, a cruel, ugly expression twisted his features – Monroe's only warning before he clenched his powerful fist around Monroe's hand, crushing it and forcing a helpless, strangled scream from his lips. Master's free hand reached down to grab Monroe's hair, pulling him up a little. His hand gentled slightly, running through the hair at the back of Monroe's neck in a gesture that was disturbingly possessive.

"Yeah," he said softly, false sympathy in his voice and expression, as he nodded slowly. "Looks like you will."


	5. Chapter 4

"Now that I know you're the guy I was looking for…" Buffy took a cell phone from her pocket as she spoke. "… there's someone I'd like to introduce you to. She came with me to help me, but I just… didn't want to bring her around until I was sure you were – you know, safe."

Nick raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the phone in her hand. "And how can I be sure that _she's_ safe?" he asked. "Or you know – you, for that matter? I've just met you…"

"And you've already invited me into your house for a beer," Buffy pointed out with a smirk. "Not to mention the whole super strength, tossing around a vampire like it was an…" Buffy frowned, clearly failing to come up with a fitting analogy, and concluded awkwardly, "… itty… bitty… vampire…" She shook her head, meeting Nick's eyes with a bright smile. "… and, that considered, the you still being _alive_ after inviting me into your house for a beer."

"Point taken," Nick conceded with a grin, nodding. "So… who's this friend of yours?"

"Her name is Willow," Buffy explained, "and she's a witch."

Unpleasant memories of Adalind Schade filled Nick's mind, unbidden, and he frowned, immediately uneasy. "I'm not so sure I want to be dealing with witches and magical powers and all that stuff," he confessed. "I've had some… unpleasant experiences with this particular type of _Wesen_ called a _hexenbiest_, which is basically a witch, and…"

"Oh, Willow's completely human," Buffy dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hand. "And she's very powerful, but she's not dangerous. Well, I mean, she _could_ be if she wanted to like, say… destroy the world with her magical power or something. Which she doesn't. Currently." Buffy cleared her throat. "Anyway, she's helping. She's going to perform a locator spell to tell us where the Initiative headquarters is, so we can go in and scope the place out."

"Where is she now?"

"We have a hotel room across town," Buffy replied matter-of-factly. "I just wanted her at a safe distance until we got things figured out and I… knew I could trust you."

"Okay," Nick agreed, drawing in a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. "But as long as we're making introductions and pulling together a team… there's someone I'd like _you_ to meet, too."

Half an hour later, Nick's doorbell rang, and he ushered a very confused, wary Hank inside.

"This is my partner, Hank," he informed Buffy. "He just recently found out about all this, but he's the one person I trust more than anyone else in the world to have my back. So if we're doing this, he's with us. Hank, this is Buffy. She's a…" Nick hesitated, watching Buffy for confirmation of his accuracy as he concluded slowly, "… vampire slayer."

"There are vampires now?" Hank echoed Nick's earlier sentiments, eyes wide with alarm.

"Yeah. One nearly killed me earlier tonight, and Buffy saved my life. But apparently – we have bigger problems in Portland at the moment."

Hank shook his head, drawing in a deep, shaky breath. "There's always a _bigger_ problem, isn't there? Why can't we ever get the little, normal problems anymore?"

Buffy was halfway through filling Hank in on what she had told Nick when the doorbell rang again. Hank seemed to need a break anyway, judging from the nervous tapping of his foot and the way he ran one trembling hand over his face and up into his hair. Nick gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile as he got up, and Buffy rose to her feet as well.

"That'd be Willow," she said, following Nick to the door.

Nick was naturally guarded, prepared to watch this girl carefully the entire time she was there, wary of deception and potentially dark, selfish motives – everything he'd learned the hard way from his encounters with Adalind – but the unassuming redhead standing on his porch, meeting his gaze with a shy, uncertain smile, was the last thing he'd expected.

"Hi." Her voice was quiet and a little timid, but friendly. "You must be Nick, right? I'm Willow."

Nick offered her a warm smile in return. "Yep, that's me. Hi, Willow."

Nick stepped back and allowed her room to enter, remaining silent while Buffy made the introductions. Once they were all settled back in the living room, and the situation had been explained for the third time, they all grew quiet, simply taking in the extensive new information. Hank sat back on the couch, shaking his head a little, clearly having trouble processing.

"Just so that we're all on the same page… this… creature-hunting military group called the Initiative is operating somewhere in Portland, and Willow here is going to perform a… a magical _spell_ to tell us exactly where?"

Buffy nodded. "Once we know where it is, we can scout it out. See exactly what we're up against, how many soldiers, what their security's like, that sort of thing. And then, well… we'll just take it from there."

Hank sighed, shaking his head. "You want me to back you guys up?" he offered, though he still seemed a bit dubious about the whole situation.

Honestly, Nick was surprised at how easily he was accepting the addition of vampires and witches to their already very strange universe.

"No," Nick said, shaking his head. "You should stay here with Willow."

"Yeah," Buffy agreed, nodding. "Someone needs to be here, to know where we've gone, in case something goes wrong. Hank, with your military background, and police training, and Willow, with your magic – you'll be our back-up and rescue team, if necessary. But… it _won't _be necessary."

"Sounds good." Nick agreed, eyeing Willow curiously. "So… what do you need to…?"

"I have everything I need right here." Willow patted the small duffel bag she'd brought with her, giving him a reassuring smile. "It won't take long."

And indeed, within a few minutes, she had formed a circle on his living room floor with the various strange objects she had taken from her bag, and was seated in the center of it, chanting in Latin, with a map of Portland laid out in front of her. Nick watched with fascination as a glowing ball of light formed in mid-air in front of her, and then settled, hovering an inch or so above the map, in a specific location. Nick and Buffy both leaned over to get a closer look, while for his part, Hank seemed content to keep his distance, eyeing the proceedings with mingled curiosity and wariness from the relative safety of the sofa.

Buffy sighed when she read the location indicated by the hovering light. "Figures. Why is it always the cemetery?"

"So, that locator spell your friend did," Nick said thoughtfully as they walked through Wakefield Cemetery, heading toward the specific coordinates indicated by Willow's spell. "Do you think it could be used to find, like… one _specific _person?"

"Sure." Buffy shrugged. "In fact I think that's how it's _usually_ used. Why?"

"Just… thinking…" Nick hesitated, not sure how much he was ready to tell his new ally. "You know, after we take care of this Initiative problem… maybe she could help me with another…"

"_Shhh_!"

Buffy caught Nick's arm abruptly and pulled him behind a large stone monument, cutting off his pensive words. He peered around the edge of it in the direction she was looking, and saw two men in army fatigues, headed toward a mausoleum in a dark, secluded corner of the cemetery. As they watched, the men opened the doors of the mausoleum and slipped inside.

"Well… _that's _certainly not normal," Nick observed in a low whisper.

"Nope," Buffy agreed. "Okay, here's the plan…" As she spoke, she reached into her pocket and took out a flat, oval-shaped stone which was glowing with a strange blue light.

"What's that?" Nick eyed the stone warily.

"A gift from Willow," Buffy explained. "It's a portable cloaking spell. It'll make it impossible for anyone to see or hear us when we go in there."

"When we – wait, you mean _now_?"

"Why not? _Now_ is when we have someone to follow. But we don't have much time, so _listen_. I'll activate the spell, and we'll both be invisible to anyone we come across, until we get back to your place and Willow reverses it. In the meantime, we won't have to worry about getting caught. Just – don't touch anyone. If you accidentally brush someone's hand, or arm, or – any kind of skin to skin contact – it'll break the spell and we'll be seen. Okay?"

Nick's mind was racing to keep up with all of this new information, and his heart was racing with apprehension, but he nodded. "Okay."

"Good. Take my hand."

Nick blinked as Buffy held her hand out to him, then reached out to take it. Buffy uttered a single, simple word that sounded like Latin; the stone flashed brightly for just an instant before fading to a normal, earthly gray, and Buffy put it into her pocket. Nick eyed her dubiously; she still seemed perfectly visible to him.

"Come on," she instructed, heading off at a run toward the mausoleum.

Nick sighed with exasperation, hurrying to catch up.

"Are you always this bossy?" he asked, a little breathless, as she stopped at the mausoleum doors.

"Pretty much always, yeah," she admitted with a grin.

"I can still see you. Is that a problem?"

"No," Buffy assured him. "We can see each other because we were connected when the spell was cast. It's everyone else that won't be able to see or hear us."

"Okay. Cool." Nick hesitated. "And you're… sure it worked?"

Buffy shrugged slightly, still smiling, but her eyes were hard and determined. "Let's find out."

Inside the mausoleum, the natural darkness of the outdoors gave way to a strange light, and Nick realized that it was coming from an open sarcophagus in the center of the room. They both peered into it, and saw a metal ladder descending into the bright, white light.

"Looks familiar," Buffy grimly observed, before swinging her legs over the side of the sarcophagus and stepping onto the ladder. "Come on. Let's go down."

Nick followed her, still wondering about the efficacy of the spell, but unwilling to leave her alone to be captured, or worse, if it _had_ failed. His stomach leapt into his throat when he reached the bottom of the ladder, his eyes slowly adjusting to the bright light, just in time to see two men in white lab coats standing at the end of the hall, looking right at them.

Or… perhaps _through_ them, it seemed, as they showed no reaction to Nick's and Buffy's presence.

"It worked," Nick breathed out with a sort of awed relief. "The spell worked."

"Told you," Buffy replied, starting down the long, white hallway in which they had found themselves.

"No, you didn't," Nick argued. "You said, 'let's find out'. Kind of like, 'let's become prisoners of a secret para-military organization that doesn't officially exist, and never be seen or heard from again if it _doesn't_…"

Nick's mildly agitated tirade trailed off as he began to really look at his surroundings, and saw that the white hallway was lined with dozens of cells, each with a plain glass door, and in each cage was a _person_ – presumably Wesen. Most were lying on their sides, facing the doors, though they seemed as unaware of Nick's and Buffy's presence as the doctors had been. Some were trembling, whimpering, shifting restlessly in visible pain.

All bore the marks of vicious torture.

Burns, bruises, blood, all in stark contrast to the pristine white of the tiled cells – it was horrifying.

"We have to stop this," Buffy said softly, and Nick looked up to see that she'd stopped in front of one cell, her hand resting lightly against the glass.

As he drew close to her side, Nick saw that there was a young _Wesen_ girl inside, no older than twelve, naked and bruised and shivering, huddled in on herself in a vain attempt at modesty. He turned away, his face flushing with shame, unwilling to take part in her degradation and humiliation by looking at her when she so clearly wanted nothing more than to hide herself.

"We will," he assured Buffy, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder, glancing across the hall into the cell directly across from the girl's. "We…"

His voice trailed off, his eyes going wide, his breath catching in his throat, as he saw, _really_ saw, the prisoner who was lying there. He was tall, but huddled in on himself, shivering, covered in blood and dark bruises, his face a mottled mess of red and black and blue under a shock of dark hair, and in hindsight Nick would wonder what instinct, what deep-seated sense memory from their friendship had allowed him to even _recognize_ the prisoner past the brutal damage that had been inflicted upon him.

But in that moment, there wasn't any doubt. Instantly, Nick _knew, _and his breath caught in his throat, his heart racing.

He had found Monroe.


	6. Chapter 6

"Monroe!"

Nick swiftly crossed the hall, raising a hand without thinking to press against the glass door of the cell. He didn't strike the glass hard, but it still made a quiet sound on impact – a slight squeal at the slide of his hand against the glass – and Buffy hurried to his side, wide-eyed with alarm.

"Nick, what are you doing?" She glanced past him into the cell, frowning. "Who…?"

"My friend. He's been missing for months, and… and he's been _here_, and… _God_, we have to get him _out_ of here!"

"Okay, okay…" Buffy's voice was trembling and terse as she reassessed the situation in light of that new information, glancing anxiously over her shoulder in the direction of the two doctors standing there, made oblivious to their presence by Willow's spell. "…but… we're not going to be able to do that if we get caught!"

"You said they can't see us or hear us," Nick pointed out, though he was distracted, his gaze locked onto the prone form on the white tiled floor, just beyond his reach.

"No, but you start slamming things around, making noise, and they'll be able to hear _that_." Buffy's tone was worried, and she bit her lower lip, her frown finally drawing Nick's attention in the direction of her gaze – toward the two doctors, who were now looking toward the spot where they were standing.

"Did you hear something?" the older of the two asked his colleague.

Buffy slapped a hand against her forehead, closing her eyes and letting out a frustrated breath. Nick turned toward the two men, watching them warily as they approached.

"Okay… okay, don't freak out," Buffy advised, though her own voice was a little unsteady. "The spell's still working. Just… don't touch them, or let them touch you. You're invisible, but you're still _there._ It's not like they'll go through you if they touch you, so… be careful."

Nick stayed still, doing his best to follow her advice, though his heart was racing, his thoughts a tumult of confused questions and new understanding that all boiled down to a single, overriding thought that filled his mind.

_Monroe. Monroe's here, and alive, and… _

… _and I'm _not_ leaving here without him. _

The doctors stopped directly in front of Monroe's cell, eyes narrowed with suspicion as they eyed the unconscious blutbad before them – completely unaware of the Slayer and the Grimm standing mere inches away from them.

"I know I heard something," the doctor who'd spoken before reiterated, shaking his head in confusion. "_Hey_!" he barked, slapping his hand against the glass. "Shut up in there, dog, or I'll give you something to whine about!"

Inside the cell, Monroe jerked slightly at the sound, huddling further into himself, and Nick's jaw tensed with anger, fists clenched. Buffy's hand on his arm drew his attention, and he looked down at her face, surprised at the fierce, challenging expression in her eyes.

"You are _not_ going to lose it on me, here, Nick," she hissed. "You get us caught down here, and you don't get to help your friend. The best you'll get is to share a cell with him. Is that what you want?"

"_No_."

Nick ground out the word reluctantly, returning his glare toward the doctors, who were still talking amongst themselves – and the cruel amusement in their words only fueled his rising rage.

"I don't know. This one doesn't look like he can take much more," the younger of the two men observed with a cold smirk.

The older doctor laughed. "That's something you'll learn when you've been here for a while, kid," he remarked. "They can _always_ take a little more."

Nick's eyes narrowed with anger, and he reached out toward the man again; Buffy drew in a sharp breath, moving as if to stop him, but then freezing in her tracks; he was close enough to the doctor that the slightest wrong move might betray their presence.

"Nick!" she hissed in an unnecessary whisper. "_Don't_!"

"Relax," Nick said softly, his voice as careful and even as his movements as he edged his hand nearer to the doctor's side pocket. "I'm completely under control."

They barely dared to breathe for a long, tense moment – and then, the doctors were making their way back down the hall in the direction they'd come from… and Nick was turning toward Buffy with a triumphant smile, the keycard he'd taken from the man's pocket folded neatly between two fingers.

"See? Perfect control."

"You scared the crap out of me." Buffy glared at him, letting out a shaky sigh. "I thought you were going to…"

"Hit him? I wanted to," Nick admitted with a little shrug. He turned back toward the cell, all traces of amusement fading from his face. "That wouldn't have helped Monroe."

"He's… _Wesen_?" Buffy spoke the unfamiliar word with some uncertainty, and Nick watched her speculatively as she edged closer to the cell, her own fingers resting against the glass. "Your friend?"

"Yeah." Nick nodded. "But he's not dangerous. He… he doesn't deserve this, and… I'm getting him out of here."

"We will," Buffy promised. "We'll get them _all_ out…"

"_Now_," Nick clarified, glancing down the hall, relieved to see the doctors finally disappearing around the corner onto another hallway. "Not later."

"We need to prepare first," Buffy insisted. "Nick, I know how you feel. I've lost friends to – to the enemy before, and I know you need to help him. But we're not ready. We need to look around a little more, get more information, and then we can come back and…"

"I'm _not _leaving here without him."

Satisfied that they were alone at last, with enough distance between them and the doctors to avoid any sound giving them away, Nick slid the keycard through the slot on the edge of the door, smiling when the door opened silently. He hurried into the cell, Buffy right behind him, pausing long enough to slide the card again to close the door before crossing the cell to crouch down at Monroe's side. As he did so, he took his cell phone from his pocket, looking up at Buffy with a curious question.

"Will this work? With the spell and all?"

"It should," Buffy offered. "Willow said to call if we needed them, but…"

"Okay. Well, we need them." Nick swiftly dialed his number two speed dial – only because he hadn't gotten around yet to deleting Juliette's number – and waited while it rang.

"Nick. You okay?" Hank's voice was taut with worry.

"Yeah," Nick replied. "But we're going to need you guys to come and get us."

"Okay. Are you in trouble?"

"No, but… we're not going to be able to get away from here fast enough on foot. Bring the car and wait for us at the cemetery entrance, okay?"

"Be there in five minutes," Hank promised before hanging up the phone.

Nick put his phone away, eyes focused on Monroe's still, silent form as he spoke to Buffy. "They're coming to pick us up. We're going to get him out of here."

"Okay." Buffy's tone was somehow patient and impatient at the same time, slow and cautious as if she was trying to find the words to appease a stubborn child. "Nick… I don't know how to say this without sounding totally insensitive, but… we haven't found anything close to what we came down here to find, and…"

"We found an eyewitness," Nick argued quietly. "We get him out of here, and safe, and… and patched up… and I'm sure he'll be able to tell you anything you want to know."

Buffy fell silent at that; it was clearly a prospect she hadn't considered. "Right," she agreed after a moment. "Yeah. Okay. Just… don't touch him yet, okay? Once you touch him, the spell is broken, and anyone who comes by can see us."

Nick swallowed hard, not answering, eyes locked onto his friend. He knew she was right, but it was all he could do to abide by her very logical advice. Buffy seemed sympathetic, reaching out a tentative but supportive hand to rest on his shoulder, her voice soft with understanding and compassion.

"Just… wait a minute, okay? And then if the hall is clear, we can slip right out and up those stairs before anyone notices anything."

"Yeah," Nick agreed, nodding slowly, but not really focused on her words.

All of Nick's attention was focused on Monroe, who was lying on his side, facing away from Nick, shivering with cold and whimpering softly. Nick's hands ached to reach out to him, to pull him up into his arms, to tell him that he was safe and that they were taking him home, where no one could hurt him anymore – but he knew that doing so would possibly destroy their chances of keeping such a promise. Instead, while he waited, Nick put his mind to work, utilizing skills usually reserved for his work to assess the situation.

Monroe's body was painfully thin, and marked with dark bruises that seemed to cover his arms, legs, and back – in various stages of healing, so Nick knew that they had not all come from a single beating. His back was covered in dark red welts, as if from a whip. There were other marks, burns and cuts of varying size and severity, many of which Nick couldn't even begin to identify – but they still told him far more than he wanted to know.

Monroe had not only been imprisoned and held captive, but viciously tortured as well.

When Nick's phone – thankfully turned to silent – vibrated in his pocket a couple of minutes later, Nick withdrew it, reading the text message on the screen with grateful relief.

"_We're here."_

"Okay¸ they're outside," he told Buffy, who immediately made her way to the door and peered out. "Are we clear?"

"Yeah," Buffy replied, "but I don't know for how long."

"Okay. Let me see if I can get him up."

Nick's hand trembled slightly as he extended it toward his friend. Monroe's body was so badly battered and abused, he wasn't sure he could find an uninjured place to touch, a place that wouldn't cause him more pain. Nick finally settled on his shoulder, brushing his fingertips against the unnaturally warm skin, and speaking at the same moment, unwilling to startle Monroe any more than necessary. As it was, before the words could even leave his lips, Monroe cringed away from his touch, letting out a choked, pleading, wordless sound that tore at Nick's heart.

"Shhh, it's okay… it's okay, it's just me, it's Nick…"

Monroe just kept shaking his head, his entire body trembling violently, a steady stream of whispered nonsense escaping his lips, his face buried in his arms, and refusing to look up.

"N-no, no, you're… not, you _c-can't_… not Nick, y-you're not…"

"No, it's me… come here, Monroe, come on, look at me…" Nick urged him quietly, all too aware of how little time they had. Although Monroe had yet to acknowledge his presence, the first touch of his hand against Monroe's shoulder had broken the spell, and anyone else who happened by would see them immediately. Gently, careful not to jar his injuries, Nick tried to turn Monroe over so that he would see him. "Come on, Monroe, look at me…"

It was alarming how easily Monroe turned in his grasp, utterly pliant, moving readily in Nick's hands with swift, automatic obedience. Dark eyes that had filled Nick's dreams for months stared up at him in dismal resignation… that slowly faded into disbelieving hope.

"N-nick?" Monroe whispered, bewildered. "But… how… where did you…? You can't be here…"

"I'm here," Nick assured him softly, raising a hand to run gently through Monroe's dirty, matted hair. "I'm here."

"No," Monroe objected, shaking his head, a stricken expression coming over his face as he repeated, clarifying, "You _can't be_ here. He'll… he wants… you have to… get out…"

"We're getting out," Nick agreed, nodding. "Come on, let's get you on your feet. Can you walk?"

Monroe dutifully nodded, clinging onto Nick's arm as Nick stood, drawing his friend up with him, with unsettling ease; he didn't want to think about just how much weight Monroe seemed to have lost in his year long absence. Nick put an arm around Monroe's back, under his arms, and helped him stand – but the moment his feet touched the floor, Monroe crumpled to the ground again with a sharp cry of pain.

"I c-can't," he whispered, breathless. "I-I'm sorry, I can't…"

Nick felt sick, wondering at the extent of the injuries he _hadn't _noticed, and just how much damage had been done to his friend – physically, and otherwise.

"Come on, we've gotta go," Buffy urged them, a warning note in her voice. "I think I hear someone coming."

"Hank and Willow are just at the top of that ladder," Nick reminded her with more confidence than he actually felt, now that it was terribly clear how incapable Monroe was of getting up that ladder on his own. "All we have to do is get there before…"

As if on cue, a loud, blaring alarm suddenly filled the room.

"Before _that_ happens?" Buffy yelled over the din, hands automatically going to her ears.

On the floor at Nick's feet, Monroe drew his knees up under his body, putting his face to the floor and covering the back of his head with his arms in a gesture that seemed as much submissive supplication as self-protection. He didn't seem terribly surprised by the sirens; in fact, he seemed to be responding to some unseen cue that Nick could only imagine, taking a position he probably expected his captors to want to find him in.

Nick's heart sank; whatever had been done to Monroe, it had clearly rendered him helpless to assist in his own rescue.

And at the moment, with the enemy aware of their location, the sound of rushing footsteps closing in, and their only allies far away outside the Initiative walls… they needed any help they could get.


	7. Chapter 7

"Quick, get him up," Buffy instructed tersely, snatching the key card from Nick's hand and crossing the room to swiftly open the door. "You get him out of here and up the ladder. I'll hold them off to give you a head start."

"You'll…?" Nick shook his head, frowning, even as he leaned down and tried to pull Monroe up again, something in his chest twisting painfully at the pleading whimper that escaped his friend's lips at his touch – more wounded, terrified puppy than fierce blutbad at the moment. "You don't even know how many of them there're going to be. How can you…?"

"Of the two of us in this room _not_ currently too traumatized to _move_ under their own power, which of us has actual superpowers?" Buffy stared him down from across the room, a single eyebrow raised in challenge. When Nick found himself without an answer, Buffy stepped out into the hallway, facing away from the exit in a long-perfected fighting stance. "Exactly. So get him out of here!" she snapped. "_Now_!"

"Monroe…" Nick turned his attention to his friend, crouching down beside him and pulling his arms down off the back of his head. He winced when he saw the condition of Monroe's left hand; it looked as if it'd been crushed and never set right, blood crusted around an open wound which was livid with infection. But Nick couldn't focus on that right now. Once they got Monroe to a safe place, there would be time to deal with his injuries. "Buddy, we've gotta move, okay? We need to get out of here…"

Monroe was disturbingly pliant under Nick's touch, obediently lowering his arms and rising up onto his knees when Nick tugged him up as gently as possible. "I c-can't," he whispered, a flinch following the words, as if he expected to be struck for his refusal. "Please, I… I can't walk…" His dark eyes were wide and almost panicked as they rolled toward the hallway with clear dread. "I-I'm sorry…"

"It's okay, it's not your fault," Nick assured him gently, his own voice trembling a little, despite his best efforts to control it. "Come on, I'll help you. Just… let me do the work, okay?"

Monroe frowned a little in confusion, but nodded; so Nick put one arm around Monroe's shoulders, and the other at the backs of his knees, sweeping him up into his arms, and bracing himself for the struggle to get to his feet. It was alarmingly easy, Monroe's weight far less of a burden than Nick had expected, and Nick wondered how long it had been since he'd had a decent meal. Monroe let out a frightened, stifled little cry at the unexpected loss of his footing, his good arm rising to wrap around Nick's neck and cling to him tightly. Nick could feel the trembling of Monroe's body against him, heard the hitch in his shallow, shaky breathing against his ear, and tears rose to his own eyes, though he blinked them away as swiftly as possible.

_Have to get him home… can't think about it now, nothing else matters until he's _safe…

"Shhh, it's okay… I've got you…" Nick soothed him softly as he hurried out the glass door of the cell, glancing past Buffy to see that two men in dark blue uniforms had just rounded the corner, and were both reaching for their weapons.

"_Go_!" Buffy yelled. As she spoke, she rushed the two men, kicking the gun from one's hand before spinning around to take the other down with a swift kick to the backs of his knees. "Get out of here!"

Nick didn't have time to admire her obvious skill at the moment, though he had to admit he felt a little better about leaving the fight to her, under the circumstances. He had no desire to wait around for more men with guns to show up, while he was helpless to fight back, or even to move quickly enough to get out of the way. He hurried to the end of the hall, and to the darkened alcove that held the ladder they'd descended upon their arrival.

It was there that he wondered just what in the hell he was supposed to do next.

Monroe clearly couldn't climb the ladder, and Nick couldn't climb it either with Monroe in his arms. It wasn't a very long ladder, but it was just a little taller than he was, and even as light as Monroe was at the moment, Nick wasn't strong enough to lift him all the way over his head. Just when he thought he would have to leave Monroe there for the moment and run to find Hank to help, Buffy came running up to him, and then past him, climbing the ladder in just a few swift strides.

Nick's stomach dropped as she disappeared at the top of the ladder, his heart racing with a sudden panic.

_She wouldn't just _leave _us here, would she? Or maybe she would. How would you know? It's not like you_ know _her…_

"Come on!" Buffy's face suddenly popped back into view at the top of the ladder, as she reached down, beckoning for Nick to hurry. "Pass him up to me, quick!"

Nick pulled Monroe up as far as he could, using the ladder to help brace him, until he was high up enough that Buffy could get a hold of his arms and pull him up the rest of the way. Then Nick hurried up the ladder himself, taking a moment to catch his breath on the ground at the top.

"How'd you stop them?" he gasped out as he got to his feet. "Surely they sent more than just those two…"

"Only six more." Buffy shrugged.

"_Only_ six?" Nick echoed, incredulous.

"Oh, there'll be more," Buffy stated darkly, glancing back down the ladder. "Let's get out of here."

With Monroe's weight carried between them, one of his arms slung across each of their shoulders, it was much quicker progress across the cemetery and to the entrance. Hank's car was parked just outside the front gate, and he got out and opened the back door when he saw them coming.

"Oh, my God," he breathed out, eyes wide, when they got close enough for him to see who was with them – and the condition he was in. "_Monroe_?"

"Help me get him in," Nick instructed breathlessly, and Hank moved around the car to open the other door, climbing inside to help get Monroe in and pull him across the seat. Once he was safely inside, Nick got in after him, slamming the door shut, as Buffy rushed around the car and got in on Monroe's other side, and Hank got back into the driver's seat.

"Monroe?" Nick said quietly, touching his friend's face and gently tilting his head up. "Hey, buddy, you with me? _Monroe_."

But Monroe kept his eyes closed, lowering his head against Nick's shoulder. Nick's heart ached at the gesture, and he tried to reach up to put his arm around his friend. When he found the motion impeded, he looked down with a little frown, and realized that Monroe's hand was clenched tightly in the soft fabric of Nick's jacket, fingers white-knuckled and trembling. Nick placed a gentle hand over Monroe's, shifting his other arm instead to wrap around his friend and hold him close.

"It's all right," he said in a soft, hushed voice. "It's okay, you're safe now…"

"N-no," Monroe whispered, shaking his head. "No, I'm not… _we're_ not…"

"He's right," Buffy stated flatly, meeting Nick's indignant glare with a rueful grimace. "He most likely has a tracking chip somewhere under his skin. They'll find us in no time – unless we _keep _them from finding us. Will?"

"Done," Willow declared with a slightly smug smile. "I put a spell on Nick's house to interfere with any kind of remote electronic signals they might try to send. On the car, too. As long as he's in either place, any tracking chips, or… or _other_ chips… won't work."

Nick frowned. "Other chips? What other kind would there be?"

Beside him, Monroe flinched, and an uneasy feeling began to settle in the pit of Nick's stomach. The look on Buffy's face certainly wasn't helping. She wouldn't quite meet his eyes, just shook her head, her voice hushed and tense.

"I'll fill you in later, okay? We don't want to talk about it right now."

Nick started to protest, but then glanced down at Monroe, who was shaking his head slightly, his trembling increased, and thought better of it.

"There'll just be like, a two-second window when we move him from the car to the house when we'll have to be really quick," Willow continued, glancing uneasily between Nick and Buffy for a moment, "but once the signal goes back online it'll take them two or three minutes to trace it, so we should be fine, as long as he's inside the house before that."

Nick was a little apprehensive about how easily Willow's magic seemed to work – but at least it _did_ seem to work, if the spell she'd sent with them on their mission was any indication, so he supposed he'd worry about that when there actually seemed to be a reason to do so. As for now, he had more important concerns.

"Nick, man… what the hell _happened_ to him?" Hank asked, glancing at Monroe before meeting Nick's eyes for a moment in the rearview mirror. "Has he been here in Portland all this time?"

"I don't know," Nick said softly, eyes focused on Monroe, who was desperately silent, clinging to Nick as if afraid he might disappear if he let go. "I guess so."

"He can't walk," Hank observed. "Y'all had to carry him. How bad is he hurt?"

"I don't know," Nick repeated. "But we need to find out."

Hank sighed, shaking his head as he focused his attention back onto the road. "I'm guessing a hospital's out of the question, if we're dealing with tracking chips and paramilitary organizations."

"No hospital," Buffy agreed. "They'd find him in two seconds."

"Well…" Willow amended with a little shrug.

"Two minutes. Whatever."

"Do we know a good… Wesen doctor?" Willow suggested uncertainly.

Once again, Nick's and Hank's eyes met in the rearview mirror with sudden realization.

"Oh, God," Nick whispered, then bit his lip; he didn't want to say Rosalee's name aloud, didn't want to risk upsetting Monroe any further when he was already so clearly unstable.

"We'll call her when we get to the house," Hank assured him, and the knowing look in his eyes told Nick that he was thinking very much the same thing. "She'll… need to know about this, but… she's not exactly a doctor, is she?"

"No," Nick conceded, shaking his head. "But she'll probably know some things we can do that'll help, and… with this Initiative group running around Portland snatching up Wesen and… and treating them like _this_… I can't think of anyone else I'd trust to keep their mouth shut if they were caught, or…" He hesitated, a new idea suddenly dawning on him. "Wait a second…"

"What?" Hank asked, frowning. "What are you thinking, Nick?"

Nick didn't respond, just maneuvered as best he could with Monroe plastered against his side until he managed to get his cell phone into his hand. He pressed the first speed dial on his keypad, wincing a little as he did so, because it wasn't exactly on speed dial because of how frequently he used it – not anymore.

The number was only still on Nick's speed dial because he hadn't had the heart to remove it yet.

Halfway through the third ring, a hesitant female voice answered. "H-hello?"

"Juliette? It's me."

"… Nick?"

She still sounded uncertain, and Nick didn't wonder why. They had finally reached the place where if they happened to run into each other in the grocery store or on the street, they could smile and say hello without it feeling too terribly awkward. Every now and then, one of them might suggest getting together for coffee and just to "catch up", but they both knew they never actually would. Juliette had not regained her memories of Nick, but he still missed her terribly; it was just too uncomfortable for them to pursue any kind of real friendship at this point.

Late night calls like this one between them were completely out of the question.

"I-I'm sorry to call like this," Nick said, sincerely apologetic. "I know it's late, and I hate to bother you, but… it's kind of… life or death. And – I really need your help."


	8. Chapter 8

"What do you mean, you _can't_ go to the hospital?" Nick could almost hear the suspicious frown on Juliette's face over the phone. "Nick, how bad is he hurt?"

Nick drew in a deep, shaky breath. "Pretty bad," he admitted softly. "But – Juliette, I'll explain everything I know, I promise, just – just please help him."

He pointedly ignored the dubious looks cast in his direction by both Hank and Buffy at his promise. No, "all that he knew" wasn't exactly on the table at the moment, and wasn't going to be; he didn't think Juliette was ready for it, not until her memory came back, at least – but that was a problem he'd deal with when it arrived.

Whatever it took to help Monroe – he'd do it, even if he hated it. Even if it meant lying to Juliette.

"Nick – you know I'm not a doctor, right?" Her tone was worried and uncertain. "I'm – not _trained_ to…"

"You went to nursing school for a year and a half…"

"But that doesn't mean that I'm equipped to deal with – whatever this is. You're – you're making it sound pretty bad."

"It is," Nick conceded, "and maybe you're not. But – you're all he's got. _Please_, Juliette. Please help him."

Juliette was silent for a long, tense moment during which Nick was sure she was going to say no. Then finally, she sighed, and Nick's shoulders fell with relief, and suddenly he could _breathe_ again, even before she spoke.

"Where are you?" she asked, resignation in her voice.

"My place. Or – we will be in five minutes."

"I'll meet you there. But Nick – you'd _better _be able to explain this."

Nick wasn't so sure about that – but that was a problem that was going to have to wait for a later time. Hank was turning onto his street, and his house was in view. The car had barely stopped moving before Nick had his door open and was already getting out. Monroe moved with him, letting out a heartbreaking whimper of protest and clinging to Nick's jacket with his good hand. Nick put an arm around him, under his arms to support him as he pulled him out after him.

"It's okay," he said softly. "We're home now. I've got you, let's just get inside…"

"Wait!" Buffy called out from the other side of the car. "_Don't_!"

But Monroe was already halfway out of the car, his weight falling against Nick as Nick stepped away to close the door. Before he could, however, Monroe abruptly crumpled to the ground with a strangled cry of agony, his good hand leaving its grip on Nick's jacket to clutch at his head.

"Monroe!" Nick cried out, crouching down beside him. "What happened? What is it?"

Monroe couldn't respond, but Nick could feel Monroe's body trembling against his, heard the breathless, keening sounds he made, and knew that somehow, even though nothing appeared to have happened to him, he was suddenly in excruciating pain. Buffy hurried around the car to their side, pushing past Nick to pull Monroe up with an arm around her shoulders.

"Careful!" Nick protested in alarm. "He's hurt!"

"_Duh_." Buffy rolled her eyes, but her expression was troubled and resolute. "We have to get him inside, _now._ It's the only way to stop it."

"Stop _what_?" Nick shook his head, bewildered.

"We've just killed thirty seconds, guys," Willow pointed out, anxiously glancing at her watch.

"I've got him," Buffy assured both Willow and Nick, her voice sharp and commanding, as she caught Nick's gaze and ordered, "Just get your keys out and get that door open!"

Nick practically had to drag himself from Monroe's side, desperate to stop whatever it was that was hurting him, to comfort him in some way; but he knew that Buffy and Willow were right. If they didn't get Monroe inside in the next two minutes, his former captors would be able to track him to Nick's house. Any efforts he made now to soothe Monroe's pain would be meaningless, if he ended up back in the hands of the people who had done this to him in the first place.

Nick's hands shook as he tried to get the key into the door, his frustration mounting as he counted down the seconds in his mind. Panic only made his lack of coordination worse, until he was cursing under his breath – and then, Hank was at his side, a gentle hand on his shoulder as he took the key from Nick's hand. Nick's eyes welled with tears, and suddenly he couldn't have seen to complete his task, anyway, as Hank easily slid the key into the lock. He had the door open in moments, and then went back to help Buffy with Monroe.

"Come on," Willow said, suddenly close beside Nick, and he startled at the soft warmth of her hand as she took his and tugged him into the house ahead of them. "They'll need a place to lay him down."

"Right. Yeah, of course. Guest room," Nick decided, his voice wobbling dangerously, and he ran a hand down over his face, taking in a deep, shuddering breath, struggling for control. "My room's upstairs, and the couch is too small…"

"Okay, where is it?"

Nick led the way into the guest bedroom, where he gratefully fell into place on the side of the bed opposite Willow, simply following her lead and helping her as she stripped the blankets back. Just then, Hank and Buffy supported Monroe through the doorway, and Willow grimaced at the first look she'd gotten at Monroe in anything resembling decent light.

"Hope you don't care about these sheets," she muttered with a rueful glance in Nick's direction as she stepped back to allow Hank and Buffy to move closer to the bed.

Nick noticed with mingled relief and apprehension that Monroe had gone quiet, slumped between them instead of rigid with pain as he'd been before. Still, he sobbed quietly as they carefully laid him down on the soft mattress, and the broken words that escaped his lips in a hoarse, desperate whisper tore at Nick's heart.

"I'm sorry – I'm sorry, please… no more, _please_…"

"Shhh…" Buffy's voice was gentler, touched with more compassion than Nick had heard from her since they'd met, and he watched with surprise as she reached out a hand to brush Monroe's sweat-damp hair back from his face. "Shhh, it's all right now. It's over…"

"No…" Monroe's voice was heavy with dread, and he shook his head, eyes closed tightly against the light. "No, they'll find me, he'll punish me, shouldn't have… should have just stayed, _please_… no more, please…"

Nick wasn't even sure what it was he was begging for now, only that he'd give it to him in an instant if it could stop his pain, ease the feverish panic that seemed to be consuming him. Buffy remained even and calm, one steadying hand on Monroe's shoulder as she replied in a firm, soothing tone.

"No, they can't find you here," she assured him. "There won't be any more, I promise. It's over."

"Any more what?" Nick asked, moving closer to the bed and looking up at Buffy sharply as he reached out to take Monroe's hand in his. "What just happened?"

Buffy met his eyes across the bed and shook her head without a word.

"No, we're going to talk about what that was, and why you already seem to know," Nick insisted, his voice rising slightly with his frustration and alarm.

"We are," Buffy agreed, her own words quiet and careful, though the look on her face was sharp and warning. "_Later_. First, we need to take care of your friend. Right?"

Nick held her gaze, stubborn, unwilling to back down; he knew there was something she wasn't telling him, something that had just caused Monroe a horrifying amount of pain without explanation, and he _needed_ to know what that was. But in the end, he couldn't argue with her reasoning. Making sure that Monroe was going to be all right, bringing him some kind of comfort – right now, those were the things that mattered most. Finally, he nodded in grudging acceptance, turning his focus completely toward Monroe, who was staring up at him through eyes hazy with fear and confusion.

"Nick," he whispered, his trembling hand tightening around Nick's. "Nick…"

"I'm here," Nick whispered, doing his best to offer an encouraging smile. "I'm right here, and we're going to get you taken care of, and you're going to be just fine…"

"Speaking of," Hank spoke up, his voice low as he pulled out his cell phone. "I'm gonna call Rosalee."

"Good." Nick nodded, not taking his eyes from Monroe's. "Yes."

Hank began dialing as he stepped back out into the hall outside the room, pulling the door quietly closed behind him.

"Rosalee?" Monroe's eyes widened with alarm. "Nick, don't… don't let them find her… don't…"

"I won't, it's okay, she'll be here in just a little while, and as long as she's here… everyone here is safe, as long as they're in this house." Nick glanced up at Willow. "Right?"

"Right," she confirmed. "The house is cloaked with magic. They won't be able to track him, and anyone who comes looking for him down this street, this house will appear to be condemned, unoccupied. Totally safe."

"See?" Nick turned back to Monroe with a warm smile. "Totally safe."

"Who's Rosalee?" Willow asked.

"She's sort of a – I guess you could say a Wesen – natural health expert," he attempted to find the words to describe what she did. "She knows a lot about Wesen medicine, and – I guess some of what she does is even a kind of magic. I know she'll be able to help."

"Magic, really?" Willow sounded intrigued, but Nick wasn't really focused on her at the moment.

Hank reappeared in the doorway, a frown on his face. "She hung up on me."

"But you told her he's here?" Nick questioned, glancing up at his partner.

"Yeah. I got out about that much before she hung up, didn't even say anything."

"Don't worry. She'll be here."

Nick was certain. He could only imagine how _he_ might have responded if someone had called him on the phone with the news that Monroe was home, and needed him. He could picture it clearly in his mind – Rosalee answering the phone, hearing from Hank that Monroe was home, at Nick's house, and simply dropping the phone and grabbing her keys and heading out the door.

A knock on the front door made Nick jump, and he glanced around to see matching expressions of tense alarm on everyone's faces. It was too soon to be Rosalee, so Nick was fairly certain that it was Juliette – but he couldn't help his mind's drifting towards the worst possible scenario, and the thought that maybe their enemies had managed to find them after all. Hank headed down the stairs to answer the door, his hand resting over his service weapon, and Buffy at his side – just in case.

Monroe flinched, his hand clenched around Nick's, and he turned his face into the pillow, shaking his head in despair. "No," he moaned. "No, don't let them… please, no…"

"Shhh," Nick whispered. "It's okay. It's just Juliette, I asked her to come, it's okay…"

Monroe did not seem reassured, but he bit his lower lip in a visible display of effort to force himself to silence, nodding slightly. It was a disturbing display of complete, immediate obedience – and it turned Nick's stomach. His throat ached with unshed tears, and he brushed a tender hand through Monroe's matted, disheveled hair, gently squeezing his hand.

"It's okay," he repeated softly. "It's all right, you're safe now."

A few moments later, Hank and Buffy returned – to Nick's relief, accompanied by Juliette. She was carrying a familiar black bag in one hand, one that Nick had seen her take with her many times when leaving the house to go and check on a patient. He knew it held her veterinary supplies, and he hoped that something in there would prove useful in caring for Monroe's injuries.

Juliette stopped short in the doorway, frowning at the crowded room, her gaze wary on the strangers among them, before finally coming to focus on Monroe. She drew in a sharp, audible breath, and then hurried to crouch down beside the bed at Nick's side.

"What happened?" she asked tersely. "Nick, who did this?"

Nick glanced uncertainly around at the others as he replied slowly, cautiously. "We're… not really sure yet. We… don't even know yet how bad he's hurt…"

"Why couldn't you take him to a hospital?" she demanded, standing up, arms crossed over her chest. "He clearly _needs_ one, Nick."

Nick stood up with her, not liking the feeling of disadvantage it gave him to have her standing over him, accusation in her eyes. "We just can't," he replied, a sharp edge creeping into his voice. "If we do, the people who did this to him will find him."

"You _just said_ you don't _know_ who did this to him!" Juliette threw up her hands in frustration. "Are you _ever_ going to stop _lying_ to me?"

Nick closed his eyes, struggling to maintain control against the hot coil of anger building in his chest. "Juliette, I do not have time to deal with this right now. I thought you came here to help, but if you're not going to do that, then – then please leave."

Juliette blinked, startled by his abrupt response. She stood there for a moment, shaking her head slightly, lips parted, though she couldn't seem to find words. Finally, however, her shoulders slumped and she sighed.

"Fine," she said in a quiet, tight voice. "But I'm doing this for him. And when we know he's okay, Nick – you _will_ tell me what's going on here."

Nick let out a shuddering sigh of immense relief; for a moment there, he'd actually thought she might walk out the door. "Thank you," he breathed, reaching out a hand to touch her shoulder as she leaned over Monroe to examine him.

Juliette jerked away from his touch, casting a warning look in his direction, before focusing her attention on Monroe. She reached up a hand to gently touch his cheek, turning his face toward her, and waiting until he focused on her to offer him a sympathetic smile.

"Hey," she said softly, turning her hand over to place the back of it against his brow.

"Juliette," Monroe mumbled after a moment, with some difficulty, frowning, almost as if he was having trouble remembering who she was.

"Yes." Juliette's smile faded a little. "Do you know where you are, Monroe? How you got here?"

"Y-yes," Monroe faltered a little, shaking his head slightly in frustration. "I – I think… m'head's all… fuzzy, I can't… every time, after… it'll pass, gimme a minute…"

Juliette gave Nick a worried look. "He's feverish, and I'm not surprised, judging by the looks of some of these injuries. He's probably suffering from a lot of infection. Nick, you really should…"

"Juliette… _please_…"

Nick's voice was tense, but pleading, and something in it must have resonated with Juliette, because she stopped, studying him closely for a moment before her expression softened, and she nodded, turning back to Monroe without another word.

She worked in silence for a while longer, checking Monroe over with hands that were gentle but swift and efficient. As the examination went on, most of the group filed out of the room and into the living room to wait, and Nick could hear their quiet, troubled voices, though he couldn't make out the words. It didn't matter; he wasn't leaving Monroe's side – not as long as Monroe was clutching desperately at his hand like it was the only thing keeping him from drowning.

As Juliette noted the injuries she found on Monroe, quietly speaking to herself, Nick made his own mental catalogue, with growing horror.

It seemed there was not an inch of his friend's body that had been left untouched.

His skin was mottled with bruises of varying shades, a sign of multiple beatings over a long period of time. There were cuts on his arms, his chest, and Nick nearly broke down when he saw the straight, even, deliberate slices that had been made in the bottoms of his feet, and remembered Monroe's agony back in that horrible cell, when Nick had tried to get him to stand. He'd tried to obey, desperately, even though he must have known how badly it was going to hurt.

Nick's thoughts took a dark turn, as he found himself wondering what terrible consequences must have once met Monroe's attempts at disobedience, in order for him to risk such certain agony in order to avoid them.

He blinked back his tears and tried to keep a brave smile on his face, because Monroe was rigid and trembling under Juliette's hands, as gentle as they were, his eyes wide and locked onto Nick's, visibly on the edge of panic and searching Nick's face for the reassurance he needed.

When Juliette needed his help to carefully, gently turn Monroe onto his side so that she could see the rest of his injuries, Nick forced himself to look, dreading what he would see, but needing to _know_ the extent of the damage that had been done to his friend. And Monroe's back was definitely worse off than his front, having taken the brunt of many brutal whippings which had left angry, red lash marks in their wake, and lighter scars beneath them.

It only took a moment, however, for Nick's eyes to focus lower, on the spot at the base of Monroe's spine – the _blutbaden_ weak spot Nick had once taken advantage of himself in his fight with Angelina. It was a mass of livid, dark bruises, as if someone had focused their full, brutal attention on that one spot, again and again. Monroe flinched, drawing in a sharp breath as Juliette's hand ghosted lightly over the spot, just barely touching, and he suddenly squeezed Nick's hand so tightly that Nick bit back a startled cry of pain.

It was nothing compared to what he knew Monroe was experiencing, and Nick would gladly bear it in order to offer him what little comfort he could.

"It's okay," he said softly. "She's not going to hurt you, Monroe. She just wants to help."

Monroe nodded, but his lips were moving silently, his eyes tightly closed, braced for pain. It took Nick a few moments to make out the words, and his heart clenched painfully when he realized that Monroe was just whispering, "_please_" over and over again – so accustomed to cruelty at this point that he expected it even at the hands of his friends.

When she had finished examining his back, Juliette and Nick helped him turn back onto it again, and Juliette gently lifted Monroe's injured hand. As much as he had steeled himself, Nick found himself wanting to vomit at the sight of the terribly mangled limb – only slightly even resembling a hand anymore. Red and purple and yellow in places where the skin had broken and infection was seeping out – bruised and shattered, scabbed over in places – Monroe's hand appeared to be beyond repair.

"This is why he's feverish," Juliette said in a voice that was strangely quiet and even. "It's broken, and badly infected." She carefully laid Monroe's hand back down on the mattress, and Nick didn't miss the way Monroe let out a shuddering breath he'd been holding as soon as she wasn't touching him anymore. "Nick." Juliette's tone was guarded and cautious. "May I speak with you out in the hall."

It wasn't a question.

Nick stood up, gently disentangling his hand from Monroe's – or attempting to. Monroe clung to him, shaking his head, panic in his eyes.

"Don't!" he cried out. "Nick, please… d-don't leave…"

"I'm not going anywhere," Nick promised softly. "I'll be right outside the door, and I'm coming back in just a minute, okay? Just – give me a second…"

Reluctantly, Monroe finally released Nick's hand, and Nick followed Juliette out into the hall.

Her eyes were troubled, stricken, her lips trembling as she glared at him through tears. "You're _going_ to tell me what happened to him," she stated in a voice that was hard and unrelenting. "You're _done_ hiding things from me, Nick. If you want me to not leave this house _right now_ and go call 911 and have someone come out here to bring him to the hospital, you're going to have to give me a damn good reason."

"There _is_ a good reason," Nick insisted, frustrated, running a trembling hand through his hair.

"Then _tell _me." Juliette's voice softened a little, urgently pleading, and she reached out to touch Nick's arm, moving in closer to study his expression. "Please, Nick, why won't you just tell me the truth?"

"Because you won't _believe _me…"

Movement out of the corner of his eye caught Nick's attention, and he glanced toward the source of that movement, in the living room doorway. Rosalee was standing there, a black bag much like the one Juliette had brought in her hands. She stepped forward, biting her lower lip a little and glancing between them with a knowing look.

"Maybe I can help with that," she offered quietly, meeting and holding Nick's gaze, and his stomach dropped a little when he realized what she was really offering. "But first, I need to see him. Where is he?"


End file.
